Working Skin

Watched the old woman next door,

her hands on the rose bushes.

Gnarled, the skin thin as paper,

but strong. A slow, practiced grace,

pruning back the thorny stems.

Saw a stranger lift a coffee cup,

a slight tremor, just a breath.

Dirt under the nails of the man

at the market, sorting bruised fruit.

A child on the bus, tracing letters

in the steamed-up window, careful,

intent. So much done, without a word.

So much work in those ordinary moves.

No one ever sees it, not really.